


Party's Over and You Don't Look so Good

by braigwen_s



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Chronic Pain, Codependency, Gen, Help & Support, Hurt/Comfort, Official Functions, Vetinari Is Sick And Tired (Literally) Disabled Agenda Writers Inc.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26539921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braigwen_s/pseuds/braigwen_s
Summary: Ankh-Morpork's finest nobs are gathered for a ball in the Palace, and Rufus Drumknott watches his Patrician struggle through it.  Then, he's there for support on the way home.
Relationships: Rufus Drumknott & Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 16
Kudos: 45





	Party's Over and You Don't Look so Good

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Clear the Area" by Imogen Heap.

The inherited nobles that came in pairs were the worst, Rufus Drumknott knew. In this situation, that meant the Rusts, the Venturis, and the Selachiis. At present, His Lordship had spoken to Lady Rust, Lord and Lady Venturi, and Lord Selachii; before this party was over, he would have to make his way to Lord Rust, however briefly, and Lady Selachii, too.

After inherited nobles that came in pairs, the next worst guests at any Ankh-Morpork palace ball were the titled Guild leaders. Fortunately, there was only one entrant in this category here tonight. Unfortunately, this entrant was Lord Downey. He looked particularly jovial, his top hat slanted jauntily, and was deep in conversation with a single minor noble; from the noble’s nervous yet determined set, the two of them were talking business. That would bear keeping an eye on, in case a commission came out of it. His Lordship had thus avoided Lord Downey, a course of action Rufus found understandable but also running the night’s schedule a little tight. Unseen by all, flitting the room like a shadow, he pulled a fob watch from his pocket, then looked over at the sound of breaking glass. Lady Selachii was rather drunk, and had dropped a champagne flute (a servant rushed to clean it up, and the guests’ eyes skipped over them like they were quantum). This was unfortunate; depending how much drunker she got, and when His Lordship found opportune to speak to her, she may well have to be Rebuked.

Rufus was the city’s foremost expert, though he would never admit to this, of unobtrusive hovering, and at events like these his skill was put to its full use.

But moving on: there was the tray of lemonade (and someone carrying it), so somewhere here were the – ah yes. Commander Vimes was glowering, and Lady Sybil was glowing at his side, both as per usual. The Ramkin-Vimes were tolerable at parties, which made them by far the nicest of the guests tonight. At present, they were speaking with His Lordship, so Rufus stayed near to them as they drifted. Vimes was gesticulating, his palm face-up, and Lady Sybil was placating. Rufus looked at His Lordship, then had to start over and look again.

He had a Prescence, as usual, and anything not in keeping with his indestructible, ice-cold reputation tended to slip through one’s notice like a servant doing their job, or like Rufus. With practice, though, one could learn to see through it. Or maybe it was because people saw what they expected, and Rufus was the only person there who didn’t expect to solely see the indestructible, ice-cold tyrant. Either way, Rufus could see that he was in pain. His Lordship’s skin was always pale, but it was currently paler than usual; he was walking slowly; his wrist was heavy on his cane, evidence of weight-bearing. There was a tautness that beseemed the Rats’ Chamber, not a ballroom, and his floor-length, sweeping black robes merely hung, instead of rippled – His Lordship was concentrating on his legs’ movement, and was thus not allowing his ankles to subconsciously shift with the music. He must be trying to stop his left leg from trembling.

As His Lordship brushed off the Vimes-Ramkins, Rufus moved in smoothly, leaning forward to whisper in His Lordship’s ear, as if providing information; His Lordship tilted his head to him to listen. “Would you like to leave discreetly, my lord?” he murmured.

His Lordship gazed out across the room, and Rufus saw something vaguely hopeful in his eyes. Then he shook his head. “Alas,” he said, “I must be seen to be seen.” 

“Yes, my lord,” said Rufus, instead of nodding, which his was way of letting him know that he knew he was grateful he had asked. As Rufus slipped away again, he felt His Lordship watching him for a few seconds longer than usual. Then the discerning presence left him, and he turned to see His Lordship limping over to Lord Rust, who was gesturing.

It was two more hours and three minutes before the last of the guests trickled out.

All of the ballroom doors were barred and bolted (the servant entrances didn’t count, staff and servants never counted, as Rufus had noted several times), and the swarm of cleaners swept in to sweep. 

Rufus silently supervised, and His Lordship took a few steps backwards, up the great staircase, to watch them and to get out of their way. On the third stair, the carpet had been rumpled, and he tripped against it. Usually, with witnesses, even ones looking only at the floor like their lives depended on it, he would have made such a misstep unnoticeable, but as it was, tonight, his strength flagged. It had been his left leg he had stepped with, and it gave out from under him. His grip on his cane loosened, and he began to fall backwards. 

Rufus was, as always, unseen at his side until needed; he shifted rapidly and caught him. Less than a second after he had started to fall, His Lordship had been steadied. Rufus had one hand rested against His Lordship’s arm, ready to be held or linked with, and his other hovered between his shoulder-blades, in case he needed catching again. 

His Lordship let out a breath slowly. It was high-pitched, almost whistling, and was to another person’s scream of pain what a hand over his mouth was to uproarious laughter. A sort of… notification what a more emotive person may have done with the same feelings. He didn’t speak, nor did he need to. One of Rufus’ great talents, after near-invisibility and distinguishing pencils, was understanding the words His Lordship didn’t say. He looked over at the cleaning staff; he didn’t think they had noticed His Lordship fall, though a few may have picked up on Rufus now supporting him. 

He estimated about sixty percent of His Lordship’s body weight was on him. Rufus was not a person with a great deal of physical strength, but His Lordship was very light. If he were folded up in some way, Rufus could carry him. Ever since the Gonne, he had often helped His Lordship walk, or even remain upright, but this was the first time it had happened so soon after a Palace ball. Rufus wasn’t sure if the anxiety he felt about this was just concern for His Lordship, or if there was a tiny bit of selfish pride at being trusted by a man who did not trust. He listened to him breathe again. His arm had begun shaking, and Rufus kept it steady. “Would you like to go to your rooms now,” he asked, his voice quiet but clear, calm and capable, “or do you need a moment, sir?”

His Lordship lifted his cane slightly, which meant a direction for the former. Rufus nodded, and they turned and took the rest of the stairs together, slipping into a servant’s entrance, then taking a secret passageway. His Lordship had gathered himself to walk, so it looked as if he were merely holding Rufus for balance, but when the tapestry fell back behind them, and they were alone in a corridor that nobody knew existed, he let out a little, sharp noise, and leant against the cold stone wall. His cane clattered from his hand, as he pressed against the wall with both his arms, head bowed, his left leg raised. Rufus caught the cane and picked it up. There was a thin trickle of sweat arcing down His Lordship’s cheek. He waited patiently until His Lordship held out his hand; Rufus returned his cane to it, and he leant on it experimentally. Rufus was silent beside him, and he made it seven and a half steps before having to take Rufus’ arm again, this time squeezing it tightly.

His voice echoed in the narrow space. “Whatever would I do without you, Drumknott?”

This was such an admission that it caused Rufus physical pain, in his chest. He would cry, tonight, when he had seen His Lordship to his rooms and was in his own small bedroom three wings away, alone and with a glass of water on his bedside table. The indestructible, ice-cold tyrant on whom he utterly depended, telling him that the need was mutual. “I don’t have any wish to find out, sir.”

His Lordship’s spindly, cool hand patted his own, and though it was almost pitch-dark Rufus knew that he had smiled at him.


End file.
